


The Swerve Special

by libbyluvs



Series: Utter Cygate Trash [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, First Kiss, First Time, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Light Intoxication, Love Confessions (if you squint), M/M, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-05 15:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbyluvs/pseuds/libbyluvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate didn't read the labeled ingredients for Serve's special high grade. Of course... there aren't any. Also, Cyclonus makes something very clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melt Troubles Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FactionZero](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=FactionZero).



> I'm getting right back to my unfinished works.... promise.

It was six million years on Tailgate's mind as he took the glass from Swerve. Six million years, and a million more reasons relentlessly plaguing his aching processor in turns. His hands shook much like his spirits as they fumbled to keep hold of neon blue concoction. According to Swerve this was his special blend, guaranteed to melt ones troubles away and surprising enough it was on the house. Even more startling was that the 'bot of everyone else's business' was sitting quietly on the bar stool beside Tailgate, one red servo patting white shoulders encouragingly. It was a gesture a friend would make. Tailgate reminded himself that he didn't have any friends... online.

Everything had changed, the Cybertron he knew, now ruins and stained ground. Civil rivalry was an every cycle occurence, the Autobots surrounding him kept to their own and the guarded looks they sent him, cold hints that he was none of theirs. The stark change was cataclysmic, nothing was simple anymore, even what made a bot. Ratchet had rebuilt, then installed his insides with to date systems, engine, and processors. Tailgate's fit when he onlined was heard all the way from the medbay to the farthest recesses of the engine room. That grouchy medic tried to take away what little he had left, and Tailgate didn't care for the docbot's reasons. He didn't give a rusty aft if they were unpractical, outdated, and not 'in fashion'. The minibot refused to be discharged until all was fixed and his stubborn pouting prevailed. Well, partially, the new mechanics stayed, just some of the old parts were put back. It was the most they would compromise for him.

Tailgate's invents were shallow, his thoughts heavy, and his optics dim as he stared sadly at the contents in his cube. He'd slept his time away and ages later he was still trying to be the happy little bot no one seemed to like. Still a nobody, still a waste of energon, only this time he couldn't claim that he worked his servos to the protoform for the fuel running through his tubes. Every choice he's made, all the stupid things he's done to try and be helpful and friendly: failures. Coolant burned were it did not belong and, hiccuping softly, Tailgate managed to smudge the blue liquid slipping past his visor all over the left side of his mask, so shaky was his hand coordinatoins.

He was no good to himself and anyone else in this ignorant state. Going around and telling everyone that he wanted to be a Decepticon?! If he had thought the glares were harsh before the ones he received then were murderous in comparison. What could he have said differently than what he did? He'd blubbered and swore how sorry he was, that he hadn't known. How lame of an excuse was that? Then he'd gone and made it worse. So much worse. He'd reacted angrily and treated the only mech he thought he didn't overly annoy less than poorly.

Cyclonus...

A pitiful keen escaped Tailgate unhindered. How could he have punched the jet like that? His spark throbbed painfully at the flash of red memory. Cyclonus didn't wish to watch him fall by setting him up with a cleverly spun lie. Tailgate had jumped the gun with his own assumptions. He was feeling his mistake and it smarted, in several places. Cyclonus definitely wouldn't want him around now and Tailgate would respect that. He'd make it easier for the solem mech. In fact he'd already visited Magnus' office. But why did it have to hurt so much?

"Have you even tasted it yet?" Tailgate groaned... that's right Swerve was... ugh.

"I-I don't know about this. I've only ever ordered sweetened mid grade. Ever." Tailgate's voice on the edge of a whimper.

Swerve smiled kindly, placed his hand over the white servo holding the cube, and guided the minibot into a few gulps of high grade. It burned, much like his emotional hurts. It scorched down his intake and the urge to hack it back up filled the small former with panic. He moved, intending to heave in a direction devoid of grinning bar owner, only for said mech to jerk his helm back and lightly tickle Tailgate's throat cabling, causing him to swallow reflexively. He choked for a short bit followed by a good chorus of coughs, Swerve patting his back plating the whole time.

When he regained his control Tailgate pushed his companion away roughly, "Swerve! You- you meany! I c-could have-! I'll-!..."

Swerve smirked as he watched Tailgate trail off, baby blue visor turned downward to stare at his tummy. Something wasn't right in the place that drink had just gone. Feelings and urges long suppressed awakening, coming out to play.

Tailgate moaned worriedly and grabbed at his middle, squirming on his stool, "Swerve?"

"Feels good don't it?" The chatty bot laughed lowly, sliding off his seat to stand behind the wigging mini.

Swerve licked his lips plating, considering the metal before him before leaning in closer to the smaller bot's audio and whispering,"Its all warm and tingly inside, right?"

Electric shivers slithered up the disposal bot's back struts as uninvited touches invaded his personal space. Swerve explored the other, groping subtle side plating, mapping out that curved chassis, griping round hips. He knew his little companion would be delicious. He felt so, and Swerve let him know.

"Hmmm.. Bet your soft and tasty, am I right Tailgate?"

Tailgate wasn't listening any more, it was like every track of his circuits was awash with minutely charged EM pulses, waves of warmth and calm spreading from the areas that Swerve touched to his pedes, then back up and along the length of his arms to the tips of his fingers. The processor ache he'd had since before walking into the bar ebbed away with every pass of pleasant tingles, accompanying them were his sorrows. His spark hummed, content and full in its protective casing. His limbs and helm felt light, making him giggle with new found wonder. As he looked around in this euphoric state he noticed the edges of his vision begin to drift off into the most pretty, hazy pink that gave the bots around him a welcoming glow.

Tailgate LOVED high grade! Taligate loved the tickles Swerve was giving him between his legs.

Maybe he wasn't so worthless after all. Someone seemed to like him, doesn't necessarily have to be irksome that its Swerve.

A request popped up on his HUD. Swerve told him to accept it and when he did he heard a curious 'snk' sound.

"Hmmm..." Sighing, he rested his helm on top of his foreservos and relaxed.

He felt so happy.

For about five kilks. He blamed the rude abruptness with which the good feelings stopped on the chair that broke across Swerve's helm.


	2. It ends here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smuuuut!

“WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN TOUCH HIM?!”

“He was perfectly happy soaking my fingers!”

“HOW DARE YOU!”

Amidst the shouts and flurried blurs of motion Tailgate's audio sensors focused on a furious rumbling. Memory matched the thunderous sound with one he was all too wary of, the very mech that drove him to the bar in the first place. By Primus, was he angry! The ex-Con’s uncontained field fluctuated with poignant rage, felt by all within range. And Tailgate, over energized and delirious, quaked in remorse, believing such smoldering animosity was directed at him for his countless wrongs. 

The shriek of glass shattering against armor. 

Someone spitting his designation with rightful hatred. 

Tailgate whimpered, covering his helm with his hands defensively. He’d messed everything up. Lost his helm once and he’d destroyed a budding friendship, and all possibilities of it becoming more. This is why he’d never be more than a worthless disposal unit. He spoiled good things before they had a chance to develop past stage one. 

Even Swerve left him.

His processor refused to help him, spurning reality , but his pedes were hard at work, and they carried him away.   
___________

Tailgate lay shaking on his berth, he HATED high grade. He wanted to drown out the feelings, but all he’d accomplished was drowning in them. His helm was throbbing, dull pain focalized in his central neuron circuits. It was a struggle to process clearly and new requests kept popping up on his HUD, negatively adding to his temper.

Even worse though, was that those strange tingles he’d welcomed before were growing inside him. They bothered him with uncomfortable sensations that bordered on tense cramping. Cramps meant blocked lines, or deep internal self-repairs: meant that he was more broken than he’d already accepted. Tailgate was tired of discovering more to his myriad of malfunctions. He was just tired. But the effects of the ‘Swerve special’ made cycling down for recharge a difficultly. 

And what in the frag was all this goopy gunk? Tailgate’s servo’s were covered in the translucent stuff from trying, and failing, to put his bodily fluids back inside. Although he was certain he wouldn’t go critical because of the loss, he didn’t know that they didn’t serve a relevant purpose, and so back in they had to go. 

His fingers probed and pushed down lower on his open array- the one he was supposed to keep maintained and covered since he was a sparkling –and they slipped into a teeny hole the goop seemed to be coming from. The sudden activation of never used sensors halted the questing digits and Tailgate gasped, visor brightening, processor very much working again. Aware, he yanked his fingers from his little opening, a fresh gush of viscosity following them out. 

He gulped down a cry of exclamation…. 

He knew what this was…

Oh no… Oh, no, no, no, no. He- Swerve- The bar- 

Cyclonus!

The miserable mini decided then that high grade was a vile, filthy drink. It made him do bad things. He would never allow it in his systems ever, ever, again. Tailgate deflated, he didn’t think his seal had broken- he didn’t recall that much –but it mattered little anyways. Swerve was the first to roam where even Tailgate hadn’t tread. Swerve, not Cy-

Really upset, for different reasons now, Tailgate started to cry. It wasn’t a loud, wet cry, very quiet in fact. Screaming and tantrum throwing wouldn’t justify his inattentiveness, getting worked up wouldn’t make Swerve solely accountable for something he should have been safeguarding. He mourned the unexpected passing of his clueless hopes that someone special to him would be the one to share in his first uncovering, to awaken him inside. 

He couldn’t have the one he desired. He didn’t want anyone else, and it was this line of thinking that steered him toward his next conclusion.

He would break his seals himself.  
_____________

Cyclonus was a force to reckon with, Ultra Magnus noted this as the jet caged in his servos left dents and scratches as deep as the wiring in his armor… with his dentas. It was a miracle the bar was still intact, as well as its bristling owner himself. The obnoxious bot’s pings weren’t always received with enthusiasm or seriousness, but hearing a certain feral flyer positively snarling murder over Swerve’s com. was a definite sign that Magnus’ intervention was required. He was sure his personal record was beaten by the graceless manner in which he’d raced from his office to that inutile establishment of Swerve’s. Good thing too, as much as he disliked the mech, Swerve deserved both arms and shoulder joints as much as the next bot.

Ultra Magnus was quite done with the unruly behavior of fully matured mechs and cleared his intake noisily, “Every bot due for duty within the next breem will exit the premises post haste. The rest of you loafers are to help clear away this mess. These are in fact: orders, so get going!”

The SIC shook Cyclonus none to gently, stalling his efforts to escape and offline the minibot being held upright by a grinning Skids. 

“Contain yourself soldier!” Magnus said, allowing the con the benefit of his doubt and giving him a few kliks to shape up.

Cyclonus optics lost their sharp glare and the mech actually relaxed in Magnus hold. He knew when he lost it, and complying might lessen the punishment sure to come, especially since it would be the Magnus dolling them out. 

Swerve on the other servo couldn’t leave well enough alone, pushing away from Skids and sneering at his attacker.

“Why do you care anyways?”

Magnus stared. They all did.

The mini started to laugh, a disbelieving sound, “No, really, why does it matter if I would have gotten him off? According to Tailgate you two aren’t berth buddies, you’re not even on good terms. Tailgate’s been coming here for cycles now, mopping in a corner by himself, convinced he’s worthless scrap.”

Cyclonus seem to start at this, listening intently now.

Swerve continued, hands on his hips, “So what if he’s lonely? So what if he needs some conventional comfort?” 

Here he smiled nastily, “Why should you care if Tailgate wants acceptance so bad he’d let me spike his sealed aft through my bar’s countertop? What does he matter?”

Before anyone could react there was an abrupt sounding impact: Cyclonus towering over Swerve. The Downed mech wiped the energon from his nasal ridge with one servo, optics challenging behind his visor as he waited for some explanation.

“He matters to me.” Was all that was said.

Thick like conductive grease was the collective tension in the bar, and Ultra Magnus (gift from Primus) cut it with cunning precision.

“Tailgate has recently been in to request that his recharging arrangements be moved to the farthest room from yours, Cyclonus.”  
_____________

His panel was still retracted, his soppy wet valve beckoning him with faint throbs of emptiness. Tailgate took a precautionary invent and carefully inserted a small digit into his waiting port. It felt good; he knew it was supposed to hurt. Everyone says breaking seals is painful, so Tailgate must be doing something wrong. He pushed another in alongside the first, the tight channel squeezing it in a not so subtle greeting. 

Tailgate had to giggle, his tears nearly forgotten, “Hello, to you too.”

He wiggled his fingers, the tips of the blunt servos flicking against clustered bumps lining the fluttering walls. Tailgate’s giggles turned into an airy moan. Oh, it tickled so good. He wanted more and was delighted that three fingers played happier than two. He swirled them around and touched everywhere he could reach until he was aching with a more substantial need. Soon he was thrusting quickly with four digits, chasing a horrible ache. But his fingers were all the way in, as far as they could be stuffed, and the ache resided further inside, deeper than his lacking digits could reach.

Tailgate’s small frame was running hot, unable to help himself as he’d supposed by his inconvenient frame type. He was trying his super bestest, but it was starting to hurt the more desperate he became and he soon gave up. 

Tailgate stared down at his mess in defeat. He couldn’t keep a friend, he was a failure where it counts, and now this! He wasn’t even capable of breaking a silly seal. His legs were shaking, cabling taunt from the built charge, and without needing to check knew he was leaking from his optics again. 

Pathetic.

Tailgate hugged his knees to his chassis and watched as coolant tears slipped from his visor to his knee joints, staining plain white plating with weak streaks. His goopy making hole was swollen and aching still. The mini wished the feelings would just go away already, leave him alone so he could be sad by himself.

“At least he won’t be bugged by me anymore”, the disposal unit whispered to no one. There, one thing gone right.

“You had Magnus transfer you to new quarters. Without my consent.” 

There he stood, tall, dark silhouette standing out against the grey shadows occupying the doorway.

“Cy-Cyclonus! I-I-I can exp-plain!” instant shame colored Tailgate’s cheeks, barley peeking out from behind the top of his mask.

The unknown length of how long the con had kept silent his presence taunted the exposed minibot. How much had Cyclonus seen, did he know? But even an astrosecond was damning and Tailgate trembled, fear poisoning his lines and stoking the flames of despair.

With a guttural cry he tried to scramble back as far as the wall in a futile idea of escape. His hands couldn’t find supportive traction, the flat surface slick with lubricant, and he slipped, falling backwards.

To be caught by a long, strong servo.

There was an ominous drag of silence, until Tailgate’s overheated senses registered why he hadn’t fallen. His engine stalled, grinding to a shocked halt, his lips worked behind his mask in silent terror, then something broke.

He couldn’t help the ragged sobs that escaped his vocalizer, like the pitiful glitch he was, he couldn’t keep quiet. The back plating were Cyclonus held him steady beat against those long claws with the frantic pulsing of his spark, its shear fright enough to be felt through every layer of metal. For all the cycles since he was found he’d been anxiously anticipating this mech’s touch, fearing and desiring it equally. And now that it was literally upon him, the very real possibility that it would turn harsh and hard against him overwhelmed his being. 

It was too much. 

Tailgate screamed static as he used what conscious will he had to give up, to accept whatever he’d wrought, “I WAS WRONG! I HIT YOU AND YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO HURT ME BACK! S-SO DO IT! H-HURT ME! I-…. ” 

The little white and blue frame rattled violently and then stilled. 

“I… I deserve it… I’m sorry Cyclonus.”

Somewhere in between the all-consuming fear and pain he’d cut the power to his optics, so he was blind to the concern and longing the sincerity of his apology- the severity of his distraught condition -manifested as crimson flickers of bright light in the other’s earnest gaze.

“I’m s-sorry… so sorry,” Tailgate turned his helm away, he couldn’t bear to meet those, surely disgusted, glaring red optics.

A shifting of gears, an additional weight on the berth, and Cyclonus was leaning over Tailgate. With the strength that intimidated the mini, the flyer slowly lowered the smaller mech, with the utmost care, to lie down all the way on his back. 

“You want me to hurt you.” 

Tailgate nodded affirmation, but it was bitter, “I deserve it, Cyclonus. Mh-m-m’not a good person.”

Cyclonus beheld the willing sacrifice beneath his dark form. The delicate bot was pressing himself as low to the berth as he could get, his condensation cloaked armor pressed flat against his quaking protoform. His fluctuating field knew not only self-loathing for his self-perceived inadequacy, but unholy fear, and yet he offered himself up for slaughter. Tailgate truly was perfect for Cyclonus. True and courageous, and deeply complex under all that innocence; small, and so very wrong about his character. 

Cyclonus’ spark observed their love as well and sang out in anguish, in longing. The object of their desires was to be cherished, taken with pure passion…. and he asked the unthinkable. 

“Never.”

Tailgate whimpered, ““B-but I’m aw-awful…. I h-hit you.” 

Cyclonus hissed, seizing those miniscule, tightly clenched servos and slamming them harshly to the berth on either side of their owner’s helm. Tailgate cried out, his panicked field broadcast his sick apprehension, but still he didn’t move, using all of his bravery to keep from cowering; backing out.

“You don’t have a spark hard enough to survive this.” This was cold, harsh, relieving fact. 

Cyclonus was sure a significant part of him died when Tailgate finally turned his helm to face him, normally hidden features uncovered, contorted and streaming coolant, “D-doesn’t m-matter.”

The first time he saw Tailgate’s beautiful face and it was twisted with ugly conviction. Cyclonus searched for any trace of doubt in his matchless love’s baring countenance. It struck him as a full-bodied blow upon finding none. Tailgate thought so terrible of himself. 

Cyclonus was well with ending this atrocity right here and now, “Now see, this is where you are mistaken.”

Tailgate barely had time to gasp before hard lips were fervently molding with his own, worry swollen ones. 

Kiss, this is a kiss, was Tailgate’s marveling thought as he came alive.

It wasn’t the searing clash he’d heard of, but a tender concursion of tentatively alighting sparks. Meeting and learning to know one another over in shear kliks The rumbling thunder of Cyclonus lit by the radiant electrical sun, Tailgate, and together they soared. A storm of unimagined beginnings, born of the impossible odds that one could be lucky enough to find the other on equal grounds; past slights discarded in the tumult of their exclusive dance. Tailgate could taste his tears on their lips, and wondered why he’d made them at all. Everything had gone right.

They broke away, but stayed close enough that they were warmed by the steady blowing of their ventilations against their two, very attracted frames. Helms together they remained lost in the moment until Tailgate remembered his condition. 

His voice was pleading, “Cyclonus.”

“I know.” Oh, did he know; it was drying to his abdominal plating as they spoke.

“Can we?”

Cyclonus answered with another kiss, this one not so subtle in its intent. Tailgate shivered into it, lips moving in eager twitches against the coaxing brushes of sure, guiding ones. It was funny, and a bit perplexing to the minibot, that while their first had been so unified and perfect, his mouth components felt freakishly dwarfed and helplessly smothered by his big hunk of super hot mech. Cyclonus was in complete control, directing the kiss’ motions by manipulating Tailgate’s smaller, fumbling lips. Still it was nice… and warm. And exciting!.... and so sensually perfect. 

Tailgate clutched tightly to the broad chassis above him, straining his neck cables to keep the contact firm between them. Cyclonus’ hands were moving all over him, learning his frame, and caressing his curves. One servo snaked behind his white helm, deft claws massaging stressed cabling, and supporting Tailgate further. The other wandered in the opposite direction, tracing transformation seams teasingly as those wonderfully careful claws descended straight between lush thighs. 

Dizzy with feeling, his spark singing in its chamber, Tailgate moaned. Cyclonus had sucked his bottom lip into a hot place, and was tormenting him. With every toying graze of sharp denta, a smooth glossa followed, running over his swollen lip and over stimulating the nerves there. Tailgate rarely used his mouth for anything other than refueling (and talking of course) so he was unprepared for the lustful assault. He couldn’t process more than the overwhelming sensations his lover gave him, and didn’t notice when Cyclonus reached his bare interface. 

Cyclonus chuckled into the smaller mouth, amused, and feeling more appreciated than sin. Tailgate was soaking wet, and that was just what he could feel on the outer rim of the heated array. The jet had to pull away from their kiss to take in the sight of Tailgate’s inflamed port.

Tailgate keened at , “Don’t look! D-don’t look! I’m gross. It’s gicky!”

His knees snapped together and he thrust both hands down and over himself in a desperate attempt to conceal his bare array. Little good it did as telling, bright streaks of his copious arousal trailed in the direction of their emergence, leaving no question what was transpiring prior to Tailgate’s discovery.

Tailgate was too charged and exhausted to keep his legs shut, and Cyclonus parted them easily with one hand. He didn’t comment right away, only rumbling quietly to himself as he assessed, and the mini wanted to be swallowed up by a black whole right that klick.

Cyclonus chuckled, and softly, he stroked the heart-shaped lips of the tiny valve, delighting in the way the chubby proto-flesh quivered under his claws. 

“This just won’t do, I can’t allow you to suffer anymore.” 

Tailgate whined in awkward bashfulness, the purposefully phrased statement causing more lubricant to gush from his clenching hole. There was no way the jet’s claws weren’t covered in goop, not that Cyclonus seemed to mind as his fans had joined the stuttering thrum of Tailgate’s.

The mini gawked, powerless to stop him, as Cyclonus lowered his helm directly to his valve and gave a few experimental licks. Tailgate tried to stifle his unmechly outbursts with his fists, fighting the urge to either cant his hips into the con’s gentle ministrations, or push him away.

Tailgate suddenly felt unsure, and utterly defenseless, “W-wait… Oh… O-oh, Cy-Cyclon-us. I-I’m s-scared.”

The Jet stopped immediately, “Little one...”

“I d-don’t know w-what’s happening. I m-mean I know, I-I just…” Pit, but the tears came so easily.

Cyclonus stated, not unkindly, “You are sealed.”

Tailgate nodded, wiping at his face, and sniffling. Yes, he was sealed. Sealed, and positive it would set the jet’s loving advances back. They would already have to work around their size differences as it was, throw in a sealed ignorant and surely the militant would be put off. Work, that’s what Tailgate was. Work, complications, and more work.

“I’m s-sorry.” 

Cyclonus didn’t allow him the time to shutdown, taking hold of those balled servos and kissing each tenderly. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’d want you either way.”

He made sure they held optic contact as he helped Tailgate to lie down, and relax, the sapped unit whimpering softly. Cyclonus peppered Tailgate’s face and chassis with kisses, murmuring soothing words of encouragement after every loving peck. It took a little while, but the mini did calm somewhat; besides, his systems were over heated and relentless, his aching need not to be forgotten. 

Tailgate wanted, “Cyclonus… please.” 

Barely a whisper, “Anything.”

“Make it stop.” 

The war build knew without asking. He worked the tiny valve, slowly stretching Tailgate wider until he was ready. And Cyclonus was so compassionate, never commenting or making his little mech feel less for the weak and needy sounds he let free. Holding Tailgate securely as he prepared him, so the dear thing couldn’t hurt himself. 

As he gently entered Tailgate for the first time, the mini cried out, and it was only the beginning of many pleasured exclamations that would fill their sparks and feed their mutual desire for remarkable cycles to come. Tailgate was tight and perfectly sensitive, his fluttering valve gripping Cyclonus’ considerable length joyously with every deep thrust. The spike fit snuggly, and slid in and out smoothly with the help of the valve’s mass produced slick. Tailgate could see, hear, and feeling nothing but Cyclonus. If this was what it was like to drown, the little bot vowed to do it more often, and as many times as his jet would take him.

Cyclonus was in another world, polulation: two. He had never felt more needed and fulfilled as he spiked the panting mini beneath him. Tailgate’s depths were so hot and wanting, it was a challenge to hold himself back from pounding him with everything he had to give. His precious mech writhed against him, whimpering, and calling to him. It was heady fuel and Cyclonus sought to hear it all, including the occasional hiccups of fading sorrow. 

Tailgate clung to him tightly, “M-More! Oh! O-oh y-you’re so g-good-~ah!- so big inside m-me!”

“More?” Cyclonus groaned.

“Oh, please! Faster! Cyc-c-clonus, please. Need you- huuuuaah!”

The con pulled out quickly, the mini wailing at his untimely departure, only to scream as the massive spike was rammed all the way back in, forcing itself past all his calipers till it touched his gestational chamber. Cyclonus didn’t pause and resumed their love making at a demanding pace. 

Tailgate’s clustered sensors were on fire, the spike dragging against them in the most tireless way. Something in them was building toward a great climax, and Cyclonus was taking him there.

“Cy-clonus!”

Facing with Tailgate was too perfect, Cyclonus wouldn’t last much longer. With a deep growl he claimed those pretty lips once more and thrust upwards, aiming for that one spot. When Tailgate’s ceiling node was hit, it was the end for both of them. The minibot jerked and thrashed in overload, his mouth moving in a silent scream. His valve’s calipers bore   
down on the intruding spike and forced Cyclonus to completion as well.

Fluids, both lubricant and transfuild, spurted out of Tailgate’s valve, covering the lover’s lower halves even as Cyclonus drew out and collapse on the berth beside his mate. Cycling air to cool himself down, the purple flyer tiredly pulled the smaller frame closely to his plating, turning on his side so that Tailgate’s chassis rested against his.

Tailgate looked calm and overcharged in the after glow, smiling like a cute dope at Cyclonus. Small white fingers ran in light circles over the armor covering the con’s spark, feeling the life force beneath winding down from their activities. Cyclonus merely sighed and held him tightly.

The little bot snuggled into the flyer’s embrace, humming softly as he felt his systems powering down for recharge.

“Cyclonus?” 

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I assumed, and drank that stuff.”

Cyclonus lips hinted of a smile, “You’re going to inform our most gracious SIC of your rash decision?” 

Visor gleaming, “Hmm-hmm!”

The usually closed mech kissed Tailgate’s helm before promising, “I would tear my wings from my body and cast myself into the Pit before I allow my actions to cause you grief ever again.”

Cyclonus’ cheek-less mouth curved upwards in a full smile- miracle –as the mini shuttered his optics and peered at him considerately, “Maybe not the Pit, I think Dephi would do just as well, and you wouldn’t have to fly very far-“

“Tailgate!”

“Yeah?”

Ruin his spark felt proclamation with his incorrigible ramblings would he? 

Cyclonus sighed, “….. Nothing.” 

He wouldn’t have Tailgate any other way.  
___________

Skids pulled a grinning Swerve to the medbay, shaking his helm at his friend's 'I'm just that good' expression. Really, hearing it three rooms down had been more proof than Skids would ever want, but listening at the door? Recording it!?

Skids couldn't take the smugness positively oozing from Swerve's boxy frame, "Okay, you're the relationship king! I will admit it now before you make me in front of others, but did you have to get your helm bashed in the process?"

Swerve just laughed, holding the energon stained towel to his broken nasal ridge, "It worked didn't it? Tailgate's been popped, and by the right mech- thank Primus!"

"Just don't get too overzealous in your righteous acts next time, please? One of these cycles there won't be any parts left of you after you spout off at the wrong con!"

"Hey, you know what? I bet I could have goaded Megatron into beating his sexual frustrations for Prime out on me, and saved everybody all these nasty vorns of war!"

"..."

"Skids? Skids, c'mon! I could have, really!"

"..."

"Skids?"

"Do you ever shut up?"  
________________________________________

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I liked it. Hope it hit ya all the right ways FactionZero! <3
> 
> Luv to those who kudo or comment. You are appreciated.


End file.
